


Excuses

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Angst and Porn, Canon Compliant, Cursed to want cock, Curses, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic Is Dumb, Mutual Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Resurrected Tony Stark, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Tony Stark Was Really Trying to Be Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22578811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: “I’m sorry, did you just say he’s been cursed to want cock?”“Not how I would choose to put it but…yes. That is the general idea.”In which Peter has a problem, and Tony tries really hard to help him in any way but the obvious. Really, really hard.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 56
Kudos: 845
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Excuses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheeon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheeon/gifts).



“I’m sorry, did you just say he’s been cursed to want cock?”

“Not how I would choose to put it but…yes. That is the general idea.”

Tony glances from Strange to Peter, who’s so red it looks like he has a bad sunburn, then back to Strange. Unbelievable. Less than a month of so-called “magic lessons,” and this is what happens. “I knew I couldn’t trust you with him.”

“I told him not to touch anything—”

“Oh, well if you _told_ him—”

“He is not a child—”

“I never should’ve let you—”

“Um, guys? Guys!” Peter raises his hand, as if he’s in the middle of class. “Sorry to interrupt but honestly Mr. Stark it was my fault; Dr. Strange was really clear. Also, it wasn’t up to you?”

Tony can feel a muscle in his jaw twitch. He’s aware this wasn’t up to him, because if it had been up to him, he never would have allowed it. But as Peter made _very_ clear when they had this argument last time, first, he’s not a child; second, even when he was a child Tony was never actually in charge of him; and third, any authority Tony might’ve once had disappeared along with his two-year absence. That last one still hurts to think about, even though Peter immediately went bashful and tried to take it back. He’s not wrong: Tony _wasn’t_ there for him when things got really bad, so, yeah, of course he’s not going to look at him with starry-eyed hero-worship anymore. He more than proved he quite literally does not need him.

The one silver lining to the absurd situation they’re currently presented with is it demonstrates that even if Peter doesn’t _need_ to listen to him, Tony does make good points.

“Fine, it wasn’t up to me,” he agrees. “And as far as I can tell, it is also not my problem, or something I can fix. So why are you here?”

Okay, that came out harsher than he intended. He’s annoyed. He said this whole thing was a bad idea, it turned out to be a bad idea, and now Strange is trying to dump a literally sex-crazed teenager in his lap? That’s an even worse idea, but there’s no way to explain why without getting into Tony’s lack of willpower, and why he needs willpower to stay away from Peter, and that’s a whole Pandora’s box of issues he has no desire to open. That shit is welded shut for a reason.

“He needs someplace safe to stay while I figure out how to break the curse,” Strange explains impatiently. “This is one of the few locations with lockdown protocols that can contain him. Unless you want him to go home with the first stranger on the street who takes him up on the offer?”

“I…no, of course not.” Tony rubs his temple. That image is doing a lot of conflicting things in his mind, most of which are unacceptable. “Do you not have an entire magical brownstone for him to run around in?”

“I’ll be busy fixing the problem. And he’s distracting the other students,” Strange deadpans, stepping through the portal he and Peter emerged from several minutes ago, back when Tony’s evening seemed like it was going to be nice and quiet. “Besides,” he adds, as the magical circle collapses around him, “he asked for you.”

With that final word, he’s gone, and Peter and Tony are left staring at each other.

“Is that true?” Tony asks.

Peter blushes and looks at the floor. “Yeah. Sorry, I realize this is really annoying, but I didn’t want to be around a bunch of guys I don’t really know and I, um…I trust you?”

Something inside Tony softens, a warmth that has nothing to do with imagining the many ways Peter could satisfy his magically-induced cravings. Peter trusts Tony to take care of him while Strange works out a solution to this little problem, and that means he has to take care of him. (No, not like _that_.)

“Okay,” he agrees. “It’s fine, don’t apologize. Strange said this thing is like a magically induced addiction, right?”

Peter nods, chewing on his lower lip. Even his ears are red. It’s distractingly adorable.

“Got it. Well, you’ve picked wisley, young Padawan. As luck will have it, I’m a bit of an expert on ill-advised cravings. So let’s start here: on a scale of one to ready to hold up a convenience store to get your fix, how bad are you currently jonesing?”

That gets Peter to lift his gaze, fixing Tony with a skeptical look. “That’s not a real scale, Mr. Stark. But, I guess…a three? Four? I like, um…there’s like an itch? But it’s not too bad.”

Okay. Not too bad is a good start. With any luck, the good folks over at Barnum and Bailey’s House of Magic will figure this out before good slips into danger zone. “I’ve always found the best way to ignore the itch is a really good distraction. Lab?”

Peter’s eyes light up. He’s only been down in Tony’s new private lab once, to look around. Tony had been meaning to have him over, but between Peter’s college classes and the stupid _magic_ classes it’s been hard to find a good time. This is fine. He can distract the kid (and, god help him, himself) with the latest Stark tech, and before they know it, this will all be over. Just a nice excuse to hang out. No big deal, really.

***

It is a big deal.

Fuck, it’s a big deal.

Okay, rewind a second. Tony’s distraction technique worked last night, or at least it seemed to. Peter was a delight in the lab, just like he always had been, back before everything: enthusiastic, energetic, smart enough to dive headfirst into every project. And if occasionally he stopped to shut his eyes and take a deep breath, and if maybe he shivered every time Tony brushed too close—well, he seemed to have it under control, so Tony wasn’t going to give him grief about it.

(And if Peter shivering at his touch made Tony’s gut twist? Whatever. He has self-control.)

So: no big deal. Tony went to bed proud of himself for how he handled things.

Which brings him to the present: waking hard, moaning, Peter nuzzling his thigh through his comforter.

What.

The actual.

 _Fuck_.

He jolts from hazy half-awake to full-alert, rolling out of bed so fast the blood rushes past his ears, dizzy as he tries to orient himself.

“Kid, what the hell?”

Peter, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boxers that cling to his ass in unforgivable, positively illicit ways, blinks at him from the bed, dazed.

“I…” He blinks a few more times, expression morphing into horror. “Oh my god, Mr. Stark,” he gasps, scrambling to sit, clutching the comforter to cover himself as he goes, “I am _so_ sorry. Shit. I was half asleep, I wasn’t thinking—I—fuck—” He covers his face in his hands and groans. “I can’t believe this.”

“ _You_ can’t believe this? Jesus Christ, Peter.”

Peter flinches, shoulders twitching, and Tony instantly feels terrible. Too harsh. This is his fault; he hadn’t thought to lock his door last night, and if he’s being perfectly honest the only reason he’s snapping now is the raging hard-on currently tenting his pajamas, making it difficult to think. The hard-on he has because Peter’s face was near his dick.

How is this his life?

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. You surprised me.”

Peter peaks between his fingers. “I surprised me, too, Mr. Stark. I’m really sorry.”

“I take it you’ve moved up on the jonesing scale?”

“Yeah. I—um. It’s not _so_ bad now that I’m more awake? But maybe we should, uh, not be in the same room together?” His face is still half covered by his hands, but it’s easy to see he’s mortified. And why wouldn’t he be? Clearly he doesn’t want any of this. “I can just go…hide in my room all day?”

Before Tony has a chance to respond, Peter scrambles off the bed and out the door, presumably to get a head start on that room hiding idea.

Tony stands where he is and wills himself not to think until his erection dies down.

***

He calls Strange. Strange tells him to leave him alone, because he won’t solve this any faster with Tony bothering him.

“But you’ll let me know _as soon_ as you cracked it?” Tony demands, aware that he sounds desperate. “I’m talking you have me on speed dial the moment you even think the word ‘Eureka.’”

“Yes, Tony,” Strange confirms with an annoyed sigh. “As amusing as it would be to leave you dangling, that would be cruel to Peter. I’ll call. Now hang up the phone.”

Tony hangs up the phone, and then realizes he has no idea what to do. He can’t leave. Pep cleared all his meetings for the next few days—if there’s one upside to waking up to his wife re-married, it’s that she’s still apologetic enough to cut him slack on that kind of thing—but he’s not sure he can concentrate on any of the corporate bullshit work he’d promised to do from home.

He pours a drink before remembering it’s well before noon, and settles on hitting things in the lab, with firm instructions for F.R.I. to let him know if Peter tries to leave. He takes a hammer to a new gauntlet; it’s almost enough to drown out the sound of his own thoughts.

***

He’s been down in the lab for hours when the alarm goes off, startling him out of the trance he’d slipped into, lost in wires and the scent of burning metal.

“Peter Parker is attempting to break out of the penthouse,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. informs Tony as he clambers to his feet, knocking over his stool. “By jumping out a window.”

“The windows are reinforced,” Tony says, bounding to the elevator. Why did he think coming down here was a good idea again? “They’re supposed to be locked.”

“They are,” F.R.I. assures him.

“Then how—”

“Attempting, sir. He is _attempting_ to jump out of the window.”

***

By the time Tony gets back upstairs, the window has a hairline fracture—not close to actually breaking, at least that’s something—and Peter is crumpled on the floor, heaving and bleeding from the head.

Tony really fucking hates his life.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter exclaims as soon as Tony is in shouting distance. “Stay away from me. Please, I’ll—please don’t get any closer, I’m not sure I can…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Even from halfway across the room his eyes are startlingly dark. “Kid, I—”

“Do you have something to tie me down?” Peter interrupts (which is helpful, because Tony has no idea where that sentence was going). He holds up his wrists, which are bound by his own webbing. “I don’t know how long this will last.”

***

Tony has just the thing: nanobot handcuffs, enforced for super strength; designed to deal with overpowered villains, and not something Tony ever, not ever, envisioned slapping on the slim wrists he slaps them on now. That thought decidedly did not cross his mind as he constructed them, hadn’t danced around his imagination as he jerked off. He definitely never daydreamed about holding that impossibly strong body down as big brown eyes gazed up at him, wide with lust and full of trust—

Those eyes gaze at him now, as Tony drags a comfortable chair over to Peter’s slumped figure. He’s afraid to touch him—even getting close enough to cuff him had been a risk—but the kid can probably figure out how to climb onto a chair with his hands bound, right?

Right. He does, eyes never leaving Tony’s face. They’re wide, just like in the fantasies Tony definitely never had, gleaming in a sweat-flush face, pupils dilated like someone on drugs, which he kind of is. And the lust? Yeah, that’s there, too. The trust, not so much; only distress, anxiety and maybe sadness. Tension, definitely.

Tony has an urge to kiss his scrunched brow, where blood is drying, to whisper something soothing; absurd, tender, impossible. Instead he crouches down, using another pair of cuffs to secure one of Peter’s legs to the chair, just in case, before stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest.

“How bad’s the head?” he asks. “Normally I’d get you cleaned up, but…”

“It’s okay,” Peter says, weak, exhausted. “It doesn’t hurt too much. Pretty sure no concussion.”

“Good. That’s good.” Peter looks at him expectantly, but Tony really doesn’t have a next thing to say. He has no plan for this. He thought dying and being resurrected meant the world was done surprising him, but nowhere in his multi-life experience did he learn a single thing that would help him with this situation. “So if I’m reading the room correctly, we’re at the attempting to jump through a reinforced window level of craving?”

It’s meant as a joke, basically. Something to lighten the mood; it’s not like there’s any question about the answer. But Peter’s cheeks blaze red and he shoots Tony a glare.

“Please don’t make fun of me, Mr. Stark. This is bad enough, and I really think I should get credit for not begging to suck your dick right now.”

Tony can’t breathe. Fuck, he _cannot breathe_. Is it a panic attack? No—here comes the air, rushing back into his lungs. That was just sheer arousal, which is not much better. In fact, if he thinks about it too hard he probably _will_ start to panic, which will be a bit hard to explain, and—oh fuck, Peter is looking at him like he wants to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he babbles, “I shouldn’t have said that, I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark. I shouldn’t have come here at all, this was really selfish and— _shit_ , I really do want to suck your dick so bad, I’m so sorry. You should probably leave because I’m just going to keep saying things like that and it’s embarrassing and—” He lets out a frustrated huff. “I’m never doing magic again.”

Tony can’t even find it in himself to feel smug about that.

***

He does leave, but this time he doesn’t go far, just into his study; there’s a door for privacy, but he can get to Peter in seconds if he needs anything.

Alone, he can finally take stock of his reaction to what just happened.

The completely unsurprising conclusion of his evaluation: he’s hard again. He palms himself through his pants, dick throbbing at the memory of Peter begging to suck it. Fuck. He should get an award for not taking him up on it, honestly. And then another for pulling his hand away right now, because he is _not_ going to jerk off to the image of those lips around his cock, wide eyes staring up at him.

Not while Peter is tied up in the next room, anyway. There are limits, and that is one of them. He is just going to sit here, work on some R&D blueprints, and be a completely responsible, respectful mentor who feels nothing about his current predicament but distress for his mentee’s pain. Yep.

He deserves all the awards in the world, but he’s going to do it.

***

His self-reserve lasts until the crying starts and doesn’t stop.

In his defense, he waits. He waits for a full half hour, digging his fingernails into his palms as he listens to Peter’s quiet sniffles turn into big gasping sobs that sound painful.

Here’s how he’d frame the defense: it hurts too much to leave Peter in distress when he knows he can fix it. It’s not about what he wants, it’s about weighing the options and trusting that Peter will understand. Maybe he won’t feel violated. Maybe he’ll even be grateful.

Yeah, as if. Even the justification is selfish: Tony’s not strong enough to bare listening to Peter in pain.

Oh, well. Not being able to live with himself is nothing new. 

***

Peter’s eyes are sunken and red, cheeks gleaming with tears, when he looks up, surprised at Tony’s approach. The blood on his forehead is dry and flaky; his hands, still bound, are wrapped around his dick, which he’s managed to work out of his pants. It’s painfully red, leaking precome.

“Please, Mr. Stark,” he whimpers, voice grainy and strained. “Please let me suck your dick. Or fuck me. Please? Please, I want it so bad, it hurts. Please?”

Tony licks his lips, eyes flicking away from Peter’s cock, back to his face. He nods.

“I’m making a calculated decision here, kid,” he says, hands going to his belt. His own voice sounds distant, disconnected, emotionless when really he’s feeling a million emotions all at once; lust and fear and most of all a deep, hollow unease at the sight of Peter distraught. “I know you’re out of your mind, so I’m doing my best to guess which way you’d want me to go if you weren’t.”

Peter tracks Tony’s movements as be pulls the belt free. “This,” he insists. “Holy shit, Mr. Stark, _please_ , yes, this is what I want, please.”

It hardly counts as real permission, but it’s the best he’s going to get. Tony pulls his pants and underwear down in one go. At least Peter’s sobs have been enough to calm Tony’s raging erection. It’s a small blessing in this shitstorm of a situation; the kid doesn’t need to know how much he turns him on.

“Wow,” Peter breathes, in a tone that would flatter Tony if he didn’t suspect he would sound the same in response to any dick, given the situation. “Please, sir, please…”

His mouth drops open, jaw slack.

Tony isn’t going to pretend he’s not etching that image into his brain for future use. He belatedly realizes F.R.I. must be recording this whole thing on security. “Honey, stop recording,” he forces himself to say. Peter deserves at least that much privacy, and Tony’s not entirely sure he can trust himself not to review the video if he keeps it.

(What? He’s about to stick his dick in his barely-legal, magically-drugged mentee’s mouth. He’s sped right past the point of not being honest with himself about how low he can go.)

“So, how’s this work?” he asks, idly stroking himself. “Do you need to take me all the way home, as it were, or is it more of a time thing? Five minutes of dick sucking equals five hours of pain free existence?”

Peter shrugs, opening his mouth wider, pointed. Right. Fine. They’ll figure it out.

“Well,” Tony says, stepping forward, “as soon as you’re ready to stop, tap my leg, okay?” He hovers, waiting for Peter to nod his understanding. Peter whines, tongue stretching toward him, trying to taste. Which—fuck. That’s enough to get him half hard on its own. “ _Okay_?”

Finally, Peter nods, and Tony stops delaying the inevitable, gently sliding his dick into the welcoming warmth of Peter’s mouth. It takes all the willpower he has left to stifle a satisfied groan as Peter closes his lips around him and begins to eagerly suck.

It’s sloppy, inexperience amplified by desperation. Doesn’t matter: Peter Parker bobbing his head, making obscene noises as he swallows around Tony like it’s giving him life is enough to get him the rest of the way hard in seconds. Fuck.

Hopefully the curse is linked to orgasms rather than time, because Tony doesn’t think he’ll be able to last a full five minutes, which he didn’t know was possible for him anymore. He hadn’t properly accounted for exactly how much he wants Peter; hadn’t realized it until this moment.

Peter’s moans blend into whimpers as he thrusts Tony’s dick deeper down his throat, as if it’s not enough, as if he won’t be content until his face is buried into the hair at the base. He gags, sputters, but doesn’t stop, barely catching his breath before impaling himself again.

“Shh,” Tony murmurs, hand falling to Peter’s hair, scratching his scalp. “Relax, you’re doing great.”

Peter whines, grabbing at Tony’s right leg with his cuffed hands. It takes Tony a moment to realize he’s attempting to position things so he can rut against his thigh. Sure, why not? Tony’s already going to hell, might as well let the kid feel good on the way there. He thrusts his leg between Peter’s knees.

“Go ahead kid,” he mutters, and Peter’s dick throbs in response. “Make it good for you.”

He meant it as an encouragement for Peter to rub against him, but instead Peter pulls off long enough to bat those unforgivably gorgeous eyelashes at him and say, “Fuck my face, Mr. Stark. And pull my hair. Please?”

That is definitely the curse talking. Tony knows it’s the curse talking. But he’s already come this far because of the curse, so he might as well do what the kid wants, right?

And—

Fuck it, that sounds hot as hell. That’s all there is to it.

With a growl, he grabs Peter’s hair, sliding into his waiting mouth as far as he’ll take him. He twists a handful of his curls and is rewarded with a deep moan, Peter’s dick rocking against his thigh.

“That what you want, Pete?” he asks, tone giving away too much, almost angry in his lust. He rocks away and then thrusts in again, feeling himself hit the back of Peter’s throat. “This it? You want it rough?”

He’s always been talkative when he’s turned on. It’s landed him more than a few scandalous tabloid headlines, socialites happy to share the dirty things Tony Stark says in bed for a few bucks or a minute the limelight. He’s never cared in the past, but now he needs to stop before he says too much.

“You’re taking it so well.” Or not. He can’t. Fuck. He should probably be concerned that the sound of his own voice helps him get off. “You’re so good, kid, you’re doing such a good job, you—”

His stream of babble is interrupted by Peter going stiff beneath him. A warm spot spreads down his thigh.

Peter’s come. On his thigh. The idea makes his balls tighten, hips speeding up, chasing the end.

“God, that’s hot,” he whispers, hands stroking Peter’s curls as he stutters a few final, aborted thrusts and comes, pleasure hitting too fast to pull out.

He stumbles backward when he’s done, racing to pull up his pants as Peter slumps in the chair, swallowing with a satisfied hum.

“Are—are you okay now?” Tony asks. He knows that in the long run, the answer is no. How can Peter possibly be okay when Tony just did that to him? But hopefully it helped with the current crisis.

“Yeah,” Peter says, eyes closing as he sinks into the chair, knee coming to his chest. “Yeah, I feel great. I’m just gonna rest now, Mr. Stark. Is that okay?”

Liquid relief, warm and light, pours through Tony’s chest, pooling in his stomach. He finishes tucking himself in and grabs an extra blanket from the couch, draping it over the already-sleeping figure.

Peter looks so content, small smile playing across his lips, that for the moment, Tony can’t even hate himself.

***

He cleans up and then hides in the lab, with strict instructions for F.R.I. to let him know if Peter needs anything.

He doesn’t pretend that he’s trying to give Peter space. Hiding is for himself: he wants to get lost in an engineering problem until his mind stops replaying everything he just experienced.

It almost works.

(Almost.)

***

A few hours later, F.R.I.D.A.Y. reports that Peter is awake, but seems not to be in distress.

Physical distress, anyway. His girl can do a lot of things, but Tony doesn’t think she’s up to parsing the emotional nuances of a teen who just had his one-time idol’s dick shoved down his throat. But he’s not throwing himself at the window, so that suggests the curse is back under control. That’s good.

About twenty minutes later, the lab door buzzes open. Tony turns to see Peter, dressed in a new set of clothes, hair wet, expression miserable.

That expression? Less good. Very much the opposite of good.

“Hey,” Tony says, swiveling his stool to face the entrance. Welcoming, but unemotional. Let Peter make whatever first move he does or doesn’t want to make. That’s the right way to do this, right? Fuck if he actually knows, but it seems right.

“Hi.” Peter gestures at the second stool at Tony’s current desk. “Is it okay if I sit by you?”

Tony scoots his own stool over a bit, to leave enough room that they won’t be forced to bump knees. “All yours.”

Peter seems to cheer up just a little at that, shoulders straightening as he shuffles over and takes a seat. But he doesn’t lift his eyes, keeping them trained somewhere around his sneakers.

“Are you…” Tony begins. What is he supposed to say? _Are you okay?_ It feels so facile. There’s no way Peter is _okay_. “How are you doing?”

“It’s back to a two or so.” Peter ducks his head lower. “You don’t have to worry about it right now.”

Tony really wants to see his face, but he’s not about to touch him, and demanding he look up feels…invasive? Yeah, that’s the word.

“I didn’t mean that,” he corrects. “Though good to know. I meant…you. How are _you_ doing. That was a lot.”

“I know.” Peter is choked, voice hoarse for reasons Tony does not feel comfortable contemplating. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark.”

“You—I’m sorry, _you’re_ apologizing to _me_?”

Peter snaps his head up, revealing eyes wet with barely unshed tears. “I shouldn’t have come here; it was really selfish.”

“Selfish,” Tony repeats. He has to give it to the kid: it’s not often someone throws him off this completely. “I gotta say, Pete, this is not how I saw this conversation going.”

Peter cocks his head, eyebrows drawing together, forehead wrinkling just a little. It’s cute, in a way Peter has no right being. More to the point, in a way Tony’s brain has no right noticing. “How did you think it was going to go?”

“Oh, you know. Recriminations, yelling, something about how you trusted me and I failed you, the usual.”

“But…that’s the whole point.” Peter leans forward, body propelled by earnest insistence. “I _do_ trust you, Mr. Stark, I trust you more than anyone for this, and so I came here and put you in this terrible position because if it was going to be someone I wanted it to be you. I really didn’t think it would actually get that far but it was still selfish and I made you do that and I know you didn’t want to and—”

Tony holds up his hand, effectively cutting Peter off before he explodes with the energy of his rambling. “Whoa there, cowboy. Play that back a second. What do you mean, ‘if it was going to be someone you wanted it to be me?’”

He wishes he had a good excuse for asking the question. He doesn’t. He just wants to know.

Peter blushes, face going a shade of red that’s reminiscent of how he looked begging to suck Tony’s dick. Which is…a lot. This is all a lot. “Um. You know.”

“I don’t,” Tony insists. He should drop this. He should definitely drop this. “Tell me.”

“Really? You want me to say it out loud?” When Tony nods, Peter squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath. “It’s just…Mr. Stark, you were my celebrity crush before I even knew what crushes were. You’re like, the ultimate fantasy. So, if it had to be someone…” He shrugs. “Like I said, selfish.”

Tony tries very hard not to feel deflated. What was he expecting, a heartfelt love confession? That wouldn’t be a good thing; the fact that he’s a little disappointed it’s not that tells him exactly how bad it would be. This is better. Peter came to him because he’s a trustworthy figure who doubles as a childhood crush in the flesh. Someone attractive enough that if magic forces you to go down on them, it’s not the worst thing in the world.

Fine. He’s fantasy guy? He can work with that. He can be that guy—Tony Stark with a (tm) at the end, celebrity crush edition. For Peter. Because that’s what’s important right now: getting those tears out of Peter’s eyes, that guilty frown wiped so far off his face he never remembers it.

“I wish you’d said something earlier,” he says, as casually as he possibly can. “I was afraid I was violating you.” No, wait, that makes Peter look as if he’s guilty about how he made Tony feel. Get to the point, Stark. “But if you’re fine with it—given the circumstances, I can be fine with it, too.”

“You…can?”

“Sure. You must’ve missed the tabloids in the nineties if you think you’re the first attractive young man I’ve had casual sex with.” Tony reaches across the space between them, almost taking Peter’s hand before thinking better of it—too intimate, too close to what he really wants. He goes for the shoulder instead, giving him a confident squeeze. “I think kids these days call it friends with benefits, yeah?”

“I…yeah. Yeah, that’s what they call it.” Peter looks somewhere between mortified and excited. “But…you really want…with me?”

Oh, does he want it. Too much. He flashes a smile to cover the shiver that runs through his body. “Kid, if it’s that or watching you give yourself a concussion, I’ll take the sex. Just to get you through this. If it gets too bad again, let me know before you try to escape into the night.” He extends his hand. “Deal?”

Peter’s face does a number of things Tony can’t read, zipping between expressions before settling into a tentative smile as he reciprocates, grip tight, palm warm. “Deal.”

“Great,” Tony says, shaking firmly and then dropping Peter’s hand before his body gets any stupid ideas, like tugging him forward into a kiss. “In the meantime, you, stop looking so guilty and come help me with this wiring. I need your dainty spider fingers.”

***

They spend the rest of the day in the lab, both doing their best impression of being totally normal. For all Tony knows, Peter actually is over it now that he’s been absolved of his guilt. Hopefully. That’s what Tony wants for him: to not dwell on his mouth wrapped around Tony’s dick, to not be haunted by the way he begged.

As for Tony? Well, he’s been haunted by worse things. He’ll live.

***

Apparently gagging on Tony’s cock is enough to keep Peter satiated for the entire afternoon (which Tony refuses to be disappointed about), but by the time they head back upstairs for dinner, he’s starting to show signs of discomfort, fingers flexing erratically, sweat gathering at his forehead. His tongue keeps flicking in and out of his mouth at random, which is so distracting Tony almost chokes on his lo main.

When they’re done with the food, Peter instantly dashes to his feet and declares he’s going to bed, even though it’s only 8 p.m.

“Kid,” Tony says, voice firm. “It’s okay. I meant what I said. You can ask, if you want.”

It’s as if he’s a rubber band stretched almost to breaking snapping into place; in an instant he’s by Tony’s side, falling to his knees, gazing up with lust-drunk eyes. 

“Okay, Mr. Stark,” he whispers. “I’m asking. Can I suck your dick again?”

He’s just trying to help, Tony lies to himself as his hands rush to his belt. This isn’t about him at all.

***

Peter takes him deeper this time, gripping his thighs, taking control until he swallows him all the way down, not protesting when Tony thrusts into the heat of his throat. He may be sloppy, but he’s enthusiastic, learning even in the haze of the curse.

God, the things Tony could teach him.

With that image in his head, it doesn’t take long to come.

***

“You good?” Tony asks after, watching Peter wash him down with a glass of water. The kid hadn’t come this time; his erection is obvious even constrained by his jeans.

Tony meant it as a question about the curse: is Peter satiated for the moment? Honestly, that’s all he meant. But Peter flushes and nods, angling his hips away from Tony’s view. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m, uh, I’m still going to go to bed now, though. If that’s okay?”

“Your life,” Tony agrees, waving lazily in the direction of the guest room. “If you need anything else, let me know.”

Peter lets out a slightly hysterical laugh as he scampers away, and Tony wonders what the fuck he thinks he’s doing.

***

He doesn’t see Peter again that night, or the next morning, though F.R.I.D.A.Y. assures him he’s safe in his room. “He’s doing his homework,” she informs Tony. “Though he’s masturbated three times—”

“Nope, don’t need to know that,” Tony cuts in, before she can finish. What was it, three times since last night? This morning? The last hour? It might actually be useful information; maybe it would tell him something about Peter’s condition. Not that it really matters. He’s not the one trying to solve it; he’s just the useful outlet.

Speaking of the one trying to solve it, it’s been twenty-four hours since their last check-in, and Dr. Do Little has been suspiciously quiet, so Tony gives him another call. It goes about as well as the first time.

“Seriously? How long can it possibly take to break one measly spell?”

“It’s a delicate procedure, Stark,” Strange snaps. He sounds worn around the edges, like maybe figuring this out is taking something out of him. That, or he has other problems to contend with. “You don’t rush perfection. How long did it take you to invent that thing you used to have in your chest?”

“Not very, once the right pressure was attached. Are you suggesting I kidnap you?”

“I’m suggesting you trust that I will call you as soon as I have the answer.” Then, slightly more kindly, though with a stiffness that suggests being nice is basically killing him: “Is he doing that badly?”

“He’s surviving.” Tony is not getting into the details of _that_ with the wizard. “Just, get a move on.”

***

Pepper may have let him off the hook for actually showing up to work, but she insists that he still has to answer emails, so Tony is on the couch scrolling through business bullshit on his tablet when Peter finally wanders out into the living room, wearing nothing but flannel pajama bottoms. His hair is tousled, as if he’s been rolling on it, his chest slick with sweat, gleam highlighting his muscles—and damn, they’re good muscles, defined without being showy. Slender and strong, perfect for leaning over and—

No. Bad Tony. Not going there.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice is high, trembling. “Did you really mean…You said you’d be okay having sex. Did you mean _sex_?”

Um. So. This is an unexpected turn of events. So much for not going there.

“I…could,” Tony replies cautiously, trying not to give too much away. Not the way his cock twitches at the idea, not the gnawing fear that immediately rises in his stomach, the alarm bells that say a blowjob is one thing, but this is something else entirely. “Why?”

“Because,” Peter swallows, visibly shaking, “after last night it…it didn’t help that much? I think…I think I need more. I really, really—it’s different. I want it so bad, Mr. Stark, I feel like I’m going to faint, or burn up, or—” He wraps his arms around himself, curling in. “Please?”

Tony stops himself from blurting out _yes_. He needs to try to make sure this is…what? The whole situation is already so beyond fucked, he’s not even sure what he’s trying to save anymore. Some part of his soul, or some part of his relationship with Peter. Maybe just some part of Peter. “Are you…are you sure?”

Peter nods fervently. “ _Please_.” He barely sounds like himself, feral and wanting, almost animal. That doesn’t make Tony feel better.

“Kid, I need you to look me in the eye and say that again. Remember, Mr. Mistoffelees down in the Village could break this thing any time. Are you sure you don’t want to hold out?”

To his surprise, Peter actually follows his instruction: he straightens his back, lifts his chin, and meets Tony’s eyes, looking more like himself than he has in days as he replies, “Mr. Stark, _please_ fuck me before I have to tie myself to the bed to stop myself from making you.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, flush of arousal ripping through his body at that image. Both images: Peter tied to the bed, and Peter taking what he wants from Tony. Add those to the list of things for his mind to wander to on lonely nights in the future.

For the present, Peter’s request isn’t exactly a model of consent, but at least there’s confidence in his voice, a flash of something that seems like him in the quirk of his quivering lips. It doesn’t redeem anything, but it’s enough—enough of an excuse—for Tony to say, “Okay. You, my bedroom, now.”

***

Peter is already half undressed by the time Tony gathers himself enough to follow him. Picking here instead of Peter’s guest room was probably a mistake. Here means Tony’s not going to be able to escape the memories: the image of Peter sprawled across his bed, shimmying out of his pants, awkward and uncoordinated in his rush. His blinding smile. The small, “Thank you” as Tony helps him untangle himself from the pants. The way he hesitates at his boxers, fingers dipping into the waistband and staying there, still, time suspended in a breathless moment before he rips them off with a single tug.

Maybe not being able to escape is the point. It hadn’t been a conscious thought, but this is something Tony doesn’t want to forget.

“You’re still dressed,” Peter notes, scooting back to lay on the pile of pillows that take up far more space than necessary, an ostentatious display of luxury that has never actually given Tony much comfort. Now, for once, the pillows serve a purpose: a perfect backdrop for Peter in repose.

This is such a mistake. Tony takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. Time to shut away the part of himself that had that thought, the part that wonders what it would be like to wake up next to that naked body in this bed every day. Push down the craving that goes so much deeper than physical, turn up the charm, the playboy who doesn’t care. Just another hot young thing in his bed, like hundreds before. This doesn’t get to be special, because if it’s special, Tony’s going to break once it’s over.

He promised Peter he can be cool about this, so he’s going to be cool about it. It doesn’t get to be special.

He opens his eyes and plasters a grin on his face, the one he used to break out for magazine covers. Not the _Times_ , but _GQ_. _Playgirl_. Saucy, a little lecherous, a lot debauched. The kind of smile he imagines every fanboy with a crush got off to, back in the day.

“You’re right, Mr. Parker, how very rude of me.” It’s amazing how quickly it comes back: the smooth talk, the performative undressing, shirt off in a single stroke, fingers undoing his pants with confident ease. Too bad he’s not in a suit, the kid would really get a show; he looks damn good taking off a tie.

Not that Peter seems to mind the cut rate, jean-and-t-shirt version of the striptease. He’s riveted by Tony’s movements, mouth hanging open as he unselfconsciously strokes his cock.

“So,” Tony says when he’s fully naked and trying not to think too hard about who he’s fully naked in front of, “I take it the whole curse situation means I’m the one doing the fucking in this scenario? I’m good either way.”

Oh, and god, Peter is turned on by even that sentence: a flush blooms across his chest, he makes a strangled sound as he nods. “Yeah, that’s the idea.”

Tony strides to the nightstand, resisting the temptation to leer at Peter as he goes. His instinct is to drink him in; he could spend hours examining the way his muscles dip and quiver, goosebumps prickling along his skin. But that instinct comes from the part of Tony that wants to keep Peter long after this curse is broken, not the friend here for a casual fuck in a time of need.

He pulls out a bottle of lube and drops onto the bed. As soon as he’s in reach, Peter’s hands are on him, fingers tracing up his thigh, reaching for is dick.

“Nuh-uh,” Tony chides, grabbing his wrist. “Unless you changed your mind. I’m down for a hand job if you think it’ll solve your problem, but if not, you need to let me get to the main event. I’m old, I lack the endless vigor of youth.”

“You’re not old, Mr. Stark,” Peter protests with a pout, but he does pull his hands back, letting them drift to his own nipples instead, pinching and teasing. Another thing for the list. “You’re in your prime. Never been hotter.”

“That’s the curse talking, and beside the point.” Tony moves down the bed, swiftly positioning himself between Peter’s legs. “Normally I’d do the foreplay thing, give you the deluxe package.” Take him apart bit-by-bit. Explore every inch of his body, opening him up with tongue and fingers until he’s screaming Tony’s name. That doesn’t need to be said out loud. “But I’m sensing urgency here?”

Peter nods so hard it looks like he’s going to pull something. He yanks his knees back, exposing himself with a confidence that’s probably born more of the curse than anything else. Though, this is the kid who threw himself in front of cars at fourteen; his bravery shouldn’t be underestimated.

Keenly aware that beneath the bravado Peter is suffering, Tony quickly covers two fingers in lube and starts to work him open.

“No, Mr. Stark, fuck me now,” Peter protests. “Please sir, I need to feel you inside me, I want you—fuck I need your cock so bad. _Please_.”

“You’re not ready.” Definitely not ready; he’s so tight around Tony’s fingers it almost hurts. “Just give me a minute, and _relax_.”

Peter groans and shakes his head, making a useless grabbing gesture in Tony’s direction. “I can’t, I need you, I need you right now, Mr. Stark, _please_.”

“You _can_.” Tony moves his fingers, scissoring, doing his best to make quick work of it. It’s not easy, and it belatedly occurs to him that Peter might be a virgin. He’s in college, so…probably not, right? Hopefully not. But either way, he’s clearly no pro. Tony scoots forward, running his free hand along Peter’s side. “Calm down, kid. Look at me. You’re doing great, okay? Just relax, let me handle this and I’ll be inside you in no time.”

Peter’s gaze burns across his skin, eyes so dark the whites have almost disappeared. It’s frightening, how far gone into the curse he is, but the more Tony talks the more he relaxes, so he keeps it up, murmuring, “You’re taking it so well. I can’t wait to be inside you. You’re going to feel so good.”

What he doesn’t say is how much he wants Peter; the white hot need running through his veins, blinding desire for the body writhing below him. No, not the body: the person. Not just the cut of his muscles but his smile, the sound of his laugh, his brilliance. It’s so much worse with Peter close, open and vulnerable. The longing is a tender, choking thing, so raw Tony wonders for a brief, irrational moment if the curse can be transferred.

He doesn’t prep as thoroughly as he should, but he can’t wait any longer. _Peter_ can’t wait any longer. He lines himself up, meets Peter’s eyes, and pushes in. Faster than he should, harder than he should, but Peter lets out a hiss of pure pleasure, so he doesn’t stop.

“Fuck,” he hears himself say as he bottoms out, so overwhelmed by the realization of what he’s done, the feeling of it, that he can’t move for a moment, can barely breathe. He knows it’s the lust and loneliness and emotions he shouldn’t indulge in talking, but this feels right in a bone-deep way. He drops forward, overwhelmed, draping himself over Peter, hand going to his hair, face hiding in the pillow as he starts to thrust. “Fuck, you feel good.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, and it’s enough for Tony to go harder, chasing the feeling of being balls deep in someone he wants, really wants. He loses himself in the warmth of Peter, the smell of his sweat, his muscles, his dick rubbing against Tony’s stomach, his gasps and moans and—

And a hitch in his voice that sounds like something other than pleasure.

Immediately, Tony arches up, eyes searching Peter’s face. He finds it streaked with tears.

“Kid?” He tries to move away, but Peter’s hands rush to his waist, holding him still.

“Don’t, Mr. Stark, I’m okay.”

It’s an absurd lie. How can he be okay? “Peter, you’re crying.”

“I know, but it’s fine.” Peter bucks his hips, awkward, not able to move well underneath Tony—definitely hasn’t done this much, that’s for sure—but obviously signaling that he wants to keep going. He sounds almost frantic as he adds, “Please don’t stop. _Please_ , sir.”

Tony drags a finger through the tear tracks running down his cheek. “You’re upset,” he protests. “I can’t—Peter, not if you’re upset.” So upset that even through the lust-craze of the curse he’s crying. Which means when this is all done he’s going to hate Tony. “I’m not going—”

He tries to pull out, but Peter wraps impossibly strong legs around him, trapping him. “Stay.”

Fuck, that’s hot. Tony thrusts a few times without thinking, body on autopilot, driven by a need he can’t control. Because, yeah, turns out he can stare at Peter’s tear-drenched face and remain rock hard. Forget hell, he’s going someplace lower than that.

Fighting the worst part of himself, Tony tries again, tugging uselessly at Peter’s leg. “Kid, that’s the curse talking. You’re going to regret this. Just let me go and we can talk—”

“ _No_!” Peter’s hands scratch for purchase on Tony’s back, dragging him closer. “No, please, you have to. You _have_ to, if you don’t come inside me I might explode. Please, I feel like I’ll die.”

His chest heaves, eyes wild, breath getting shallow. Panicking. He’s really panicking. Tony cups the back of his head, kisses his cheeks, his neck, instinct taking over. “Okay, okay, okay,” he lies. None of this is okay at all. “You’re okay, we’re good, we’re all good, you’re going to be okay.”

And because there’s only one way out of this that he can see, Tony closes his eyes, tries to remember what Peter looked like before he started crying, and starts fucking him again.

After a few strokes Peter moans, low and pleased. “Harder, Mr. Stark,” he begs, voice steadier: desperate and wanting, but no longer tipping over the ledge into alarm. “Take me, make me yours.”

Tony groans, biting his lip to keep his mouth from running, to keep from saying, _You are, you’re mine, let me own you, let me keep you_. But just because he doesn’t say it doesn’t mean he can’t think it, can’t imagine, for one dangerous moment, that all of this is real. That Peter wants him, too; not the fantasy of him but every part, the broken man who keeps robots as friends and craves this beautiful boy in his bed every night, to love and protect and all that cheesy wedding-vow crap.

He picks up the pace: harder, because Peter is begging for it, whimpering, screaming, “Yes, yes, _Mr. Stark, harder_.” Pounding, possessive, hands digging into Peter’s side, teeth skimming his neck. His own breathing is ragged, body burning, wanting, needing, close but not quite able to push himself over—

“Fuck, Peter,” he rumbles, hand squeezing between them, circling Peter’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. He wants to feel Peter tighten around him, wants to make something good out of this for him. A momentary flash of pleasure, if nothing else. “You’re so hot, you’re so tight, I love being inside you—”

There’s suddenly pain at Tony’s shoulder—Peter biting down, just a bit too hard, shaking apart underneath him, around him. The warmth of his come coats Tony’s stomach.

“Mr. Stark,” he whispers, going limp and pliant in Tony’s arms, legs falling away. It’s those words, his name sighed so contently, that finally gets Tony there. He comes with a grunt, letting himself live in the pleasure long enough to cherish the moment, stamp it into memory, before rolling away.

He stares up at the ceiling, defeated. Everything feels heightened in the wake of…that. The pleasure, but also the emotional shock of it. The air against his sweat-covered skin is cold; Peter’s panting harsh, too loud. After a minute of silence, the bed beside him dips, sheets ruffling. He thinks Peter’s running away—who could blame him?—but a quick glance over corrects that mistake. He’s still there, back to Tony, clutching himself in a ball. Not much better.

Worse, maybe.

“Kid?” Tony asks, tentatively. “Do you want to…talk about it?”

“No,” comes the reply, small and scared. Hurt. So hurt, and Tony wants to take it all back. “Sorry. I should go.”

“No,” Tony echoes. “Not if you don’t want to.” But why wouldn’t he want to? Why _hasn’t_ he run from the bed? Embarrassed, probably. “ _I_ can go. I can take a shower, give you some space, let you get dressed—”

“Okay.”

But it’s sad, resigned—not an _okay_ of relief. Wrong guess.

“Or not. I can stay here. Or…kid, just tell me what you want from me.”

Time stretches thin, seconds dripping by. Tony risks another glance over: Peter hasn’t moved, curled so tight Tony can make out the notches in his spine. He swallows the impulse to scatter kisses down every inch of that back.

Finally, Peter speaks, quietly, a little muffled, face angled into his pillow. “You said I was attractive. When we were talking about this. You said I was an ‘attractive young man.’”

It sounds like a question, or maybe an accusation. Tony’s heart hammers loudly in his ears. Did he give too much away in his lust, peel back the layers of the suave lie and leave his heart open for reading?

“I did,” he confirms. He doesn’t think his tone conveys anything, but what does he know? “You are.”

“Yeah, right. You couldn’t even look at me. You said…but you couldn’t even look at me. You closed your eyes.”

Oh. Well, on the plus side, at least he _definitely_ didn’t give anything way. Maybe too far in the opposite direction, but a bruised ego is something he can fix. “Pete, you were crying. I may be a bit messed up in the head”—or a lot, no need to get into that—“but I draw the line at getting turned on by someone I care about suffering.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Tony has never heard someone sound less convinced.

“Are you really that upset about it? Listen, kid, I promise, you’re hot. All the little boys and girls at Columbia will swoon over you. Maybe they already do. I don’t need to know. If they aren’t, they’re idiots. You’re good on the attractiveness front.”

Peter twists, giving Tony a scathing look over his shoulder. There are still tears in his eyes. “That’s not…” He collapses back around, hiding his face again. “Forget it.”

What is Tony supposed to do? Pry, push Peter to explain what he means? Leave him alone, give him space? He asked, and Peter didn’t really answer, and now he’s stuck, paralyzed, afraid every move is the wrong one. So he stays where he is: eyes on the ceiling, body limp with what he would term afterglow if the whole mood weren’t so sour.

He’s half drifting—not so much from exhaustion or boredom but a sheer unwillingness to process—when Peter finally rolls to his other side, facing Tony. The movement leaves less than a foot between them. Heat radiates off his body, more than a normal person. Curse, or spider-biology? A corner of Tony’s brain files it away to explore later. If Peter naturally runs hot in stress situations, maybe he can account for that in the next model of his suit. It never occurred to him to ask.

“You’re thinking,” Peter says, cutting the train of thought off abruptly. “What are you thinking about?”

“Honestly? Your suit.”

“My suit.” The disbelief is clear. Peter tugs the sheet up to cover his shoulder, clutching it in place at his chest. “Your brain is weird.”

Tony shrugs. “You’re telling me you don’t want a new suit to make up for this mess?” Oh, gross. That makes it sound transactional. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—listen kid, I think it’s clear I have no idea what I’m doing here. If you could throw me a lifeline, it would be appreciated.”

Wait, that’s too demanding. Peter doesn’t owe him a god damn thing. If he wants to let Tony flounder, he should. But before he can find a way to say that—before, more honestly, he can work up the courage—Peter replies, “You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Stark. I’m not upset at you.”

 _But you were crying_ , Tony doesn’t repeat. Peter’s eyes are fierce now, not sad, but tears still lace his lashes. “You _are_ upset, Pete. Maybe not with me, though I don’t really buy that, but you’re definitely upset. Can you tell me why? Did I hurt you?”

He watches Peter’s throat bob as he mulls the question over, resisting the urge to lean forward and kiss his Adam’s apple, smooth his worry lines, promise to undo it all. He’s cracked time travel before. There must be a way to erase this. He’d do it, if it would take away the tears.

“I can tell you, but you might hate me,” Peter replies after a long stretch of thinking. “Or be awkward, or not want to see me and I really, really don’t want that.”

Tony rolls to his side, a mirror of Peter’s earlier movement, leaving his face even with Peter’s, eyes matching eyes. He tucks his arm under his head to stop himself from running his fingers through Peter’s matted hair. “Hate’s not on the menu,” he promises. What an absurd thing to even suggest, it’s so far from the truth. “No way. And I told you, I’m very cool. Very casual. A regular Don Juan. I’m not going to be awkward.”

For some reason, that makes Peter flinch, pulling away. “Never mind.”

No. _No_.

“Pete, _please_.” He knows he’s being incredibly selfish, not dropping it, but he can see Peter shrinking into himself, leaving him behind, and he can’t let that happen. Not if there’s a way to salvage things. Give him a single sliver of hope and he’ll cling to it, every time. “Tell me how to fix this.”

“You _can’t_ ,” Peter insists, a little angry, frustrated. 

Of course. That’s always it, right? Tony pushes and pushes and pushes until something snaps. He was supposed to do better, after coming back. With Peter, especially. He’d promised himself. But so many promises have gone out the window in the last few days, what’s one more? “Kid, I'll do anything. Whatever you want.”

“I told you, Mr. Stark, there’s nothing to fix.” He sounds a little like he’s pleading, begging Tony to believe him, as he adds, “I’m not upset at you. I’m just—I’ll be fine, I just need to get over it.”

“Over _what_ , Pete? Because hearing you need to get over something is not making me feel like I did a good thing, here.”

Peter sighs, a defeated huff of air that makes the hair on his forehead dance with the force of it. “That you didn’t want me. I thought I was okay with it until it was happening and I realized how much it hurt. Emotionally, I mean. I promise you didn’t hurt-hurt me.”

“Emotions count,” Tony says slowly, suddenly balanced on a knife’s edge. Stumble one way, show the hand he’s been playing close to the vest, and maybe he can make this better. But maybe it would be worse, another slap on top of the original mistake. Peter needed to feel wanted in the moment, not now, too late. Tony can’t retroactively fix that pain with a truth that will stain everything going forward. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel wanted, Pete. You were, for the record, but I’m sorry it didn’t feel that way. Maybe consider it a learning experience? Not everyone is cut out for casual sex, and that’s okay. I promise you’ll find someone special to do it with next time.”

He cringes internally as he says it. Total cliché. But at least it was mentorly, or his best approximation. 

Unfortunately, rather than giving him a grateful smile and telling him it’s all okay now—listen, a guy can hope—Peter flops to his back, arm covering his face. He sighs, loudly.

“Too cheesy?” Tony prods. “You know I’m not good at the feelings pep talk thing.”

“I mean, yeah, it was, but that’s not—” Peter’s hand balls into a fist, as if he’s bracing for something. “I’m totally fine with casual sex, Mr. Stark. Not that I’ve had a lot—I mean, it’s not my favorite—I just—fuck. Sorry. You didn’t need to know that. But that’s not the problem.”

Okay, so not his first time, at least. That’s good. But if that’s not the problem, why would he—

A thousand puzzles pieces slot into place at once. Maybe Tony had been reading this all wrong. Maybe ultimate fantasy means more than tabloid cover boy. Maybe Peter wants—

No. Well, maybe yes. But it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. It definitely shouldn’t matter.

Ha. As if. An hour ago, Tony might have convinced himself that Peter returning his feelings doesn’t matter, not when stacked against the looming tower of Tony’s flaws. Pulling this thread could unravel everything, and that might’ve been enough to stop him.

But an hour ago, he hadn’t felt what it was like to be inside Peter Parker. To be close to him. Hadn’t heard him beg for Tony to make him his. If any part of him had meant it—

“It was about me,” he says, trying not to let his eagerness show. If he’s reading this wrong, he’s not going to tip his hand further. “Is that what you’re saying? You were upset _I_ didn’t want you?”

“Do I really have to say it _again_?” Peter complains, flinging his free arm over his face, too. “I told you, you’re my ultimate fantasy. I just didn’t know how important the whole fantasy was until I only had half of it.”

Oh. Okay then.

Tony reaches across the space between them, tugging the top arm away from Peter’s face. He lets it go reluctantly, slanting his eyes in Tony’s direction. He’s red again, embarrassed, but at least the tears are gone.

“You mean that?” Tony checks. “That’s not the curse talking?”

Peter snorts. “The curse makes me want cock, period,” he says (and speaking of cock, hearing Peter say the word goes straight to Tony’s. A thought for another time). “It’s not why I want _you_.”

“Okay, then.” Tony shifts, propping himself on his elbows, hovering over Peter. “Move that other arm and let me kiss you.”

Peter drops the arm from his face. “ _What_?”

Tony takes the opportunity to dip his head, lips ghosting across Peter’s before pressing down, firm, confident, just a little open. He learned a thing or two back during his actual Don Juan days—he knows how to make anyone feel wanted, and Peter is far from _anyone_.

When he pulls away to search Peter’s face for a reaction, he’s met with awe.

“Did you—are you—do you mean?”

“Yeah, kid,” Tony confirms, leaning in for another kiss, “I mean.”

***

Twenty minutes later, they’re making out like a pair of teenagers. Which, to be fair, one of them is. Tony doesn’t exactly mind the blast from the past. He could spend all day getting lost in Peter’s lips, the sharp jut of his jaw, the way he nuzzles into Tony’s hair, whispering his name like he’s stunned. Maybe he is. Tony is. Beyond stunned. Drunk on it, wild, tumbling down a cliff. This is either the best or worst idea he’s ever had, and all logic points to worst. He’s out of excuses for why he’s doing it anyway, other than this: he wants to, very much, and Peter does too, and for now, he’s willing to bet against the odds.

When F.R.I.D.A.Y. interrupts to announce Doctor Strange is calling with a cure, Peter moans into his mouth, “It can wait.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “F.R.I., tell him it can wait.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is highly appreciated <3
> 
> Re-dated because it was anon for an exchange and now revealed. Sorry if you’ve seen it already!


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